


Understanding

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little sticky dom/sub Megatron/Deadlock for tf-rare-pairing.  Ref to addiction</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding

Deadlock grunted, the sound buried in the abrupt crunching slam of his face against the bulwark. He could feel the shock and pain of a cracked cheekplate, a split in his crest, sharp and hard and alive with pain.

His feet found the deckplate just long enough to catch balance, and he was off,  launching from those footplates, flinging himself headlong at his opponent.

Megatron gave a gratifying, completely unfeigned ‘oof’, as the smaller mech hit him, mid-mass, planting one foot behind him solidly to take the impact.  “Better,” he said, gruffly, as he caught Deadlock by the spaulders, spinning him off to one side. “You’d have given me trouble in the Arena.”

High praise, all the higher because Deadlock knew Megatron didn’t flatter, didn’t lie.

He didn’t need to. He was Megatron.

Deadlock rolled, wincing, to regain his feet. He wasn’t good with compliments, however sincere, though his spark thrummed, turning the pain from his injuries into a sort of shimmering pleasure.

Megatron made a ‘come-hither’ gesture with one upturned palm, something close to a smile quirking his mouthplates. Calm, confident, cool, compared to Deadlock’s heat, his roiling emotions.

Deadlock launched himself again, low, one fist balling, preparing to twist upward for the taller mech’s jaw.

Megatron caught the move, caught Deadock’s fist, seizing it mid-blow, twisting the arm wide and around, whipping Deadlock to the side, until Deadlock had to rise on his toes, gasping in pain.

“I win,” Megatron’s voice, sultry velvet in Deadlock’s audio, his other hand skimming possessively down Deadlock’s side.

Deadlock growled, twisting, trying to wriggle free, refusing to admit defeat, or at least to surrender to it. Energon spattered from his mouth, bubbling through the cracked cheekplate.

“Say it, Deadlock. Admit I won.”  The free hand slid between the smaller mech’s thighs, palm flat over the interface hatch, promising and threatening.

Deadlock didn’t stop moving, but his twisting seemed to shift, less about escape than pushing into the touch.  He muttered something, a word even he couldn’t identify, pain and a shimmering lust beginning to froth over him.

The hand stopped moving, lifting off, obvious in punishment, while the other hand still twisted the hand behind Deadlock’s back, his knuckles bumping against the back of his spaulder.  Deadlock gave a whine of frustration, spinal struts bucking against the broad flat chassis.

Megatron gave a chuff of laughter, lifting the smaller mech off the ground with one hand around the waist, feeling Deadlock’s legs struggle with losing the ground.  His body swung against Megatron’s hold, until his free hand lashed out, finding the wall in front of him, the cold plate against which he’d struck his head. His fingers were slick, stained with energon from his injured face, the shoulder joint protesting, armor crushed where he’d landed. 

And behind him, Megatron gave another throaty sound, nearly a purr, designed to outrage, designed to enflame. “So eager. I won’t make you beg.” As though it was a favor. As though Deadlock would beg. 

He probably would: he was on the brink of it already, want turning to need, a familiar, kerosene-like burn, clear and hot. Still, the garbled keen from his vocalizer spoke volumes as Megatron lifted him, shifting his hips, planting him against the sudden mass of his spike.  Deadlock felt his valve covers buckle inward, resisting but yielding, another sharp ache of pain and desire.  He released them, the warped petals folding aside, Deadlock hissing at himself even as his legs reached, trying to grip the larger mech's hips behind him, pulling him closer.  

The spike pushed into him, his valve slick with lubricant, his arousal unmistakeable, impossible to hide, as the mesh stretched taut around the spike's girth. Megatron rumbled, his heavy Industrial-rated engine sounding with its own desire as he filled Deadlock, sinking up to his baseplate inside the smaller mech. 

It went fast from there, each surrendering to the pull of their bodies, Megatron's hips pistoning fast, relentless, against Deadlock's aft, the smaller mech's hand scratching at the steel wall before him, his other hand pinned between their surging, heaving bodies.  His head tossed back: he could taste the tang of his own energon in his mouth, smell the friction-heat of their thrusting bodies, his audio filled with the rough pants of his ventilation, the sounds of well-oiled parts shifting, the slide of metal on metal.  

He wanted this--he needed this, the pain and pleasure both, the force and the gentleness. He needed it like he'd needed Syk, before the war, to pull him from himself, to tear him out of his narrow life, his small thoughts. It freed him, in ways he couldn't explain, turning his body into an instrument of pleasure, a vessel of desire he hated and loved. It uncomplicated things in very complicated ways. 

But all he cared to do now was ride it, feeling the desire like a bubble of lava, burning over him, building in heat and intensity, until it blinded him to everything else, his entire focus inward, absorbed in it and the world itself seemd to disappear, fade like a thin scrim, until only this was real. 

Megatron gave a thick grunt, behind him, a beat before the scald of his release, transfluid bursting against the valve ceiling in hard throbs of pressure and pleasure.  Deadlock bit off a sound, a hard cry, keeping it all within him: sound, fluid, the cataract of release, absorbed in his own self, his own being.  

No, it was better than Syk, an almost-too-vivid euphoria, less an escape than a retreat to himself, finding pleasure, delight, want within the confines of his body.  He could stay here forever, in this hanging space of overload, feeling the charge running through him, bright and clean, feeling as though the world itself existed for him, in him. 

He knew it wouldn't--couldn't--last, but even the fade held a kind of euphoria, leaving him light-headed and bright, even as his body sagged with a sated exhaustion against the hands that moved to hold his weight, to ease him off the spike, lower his feet back to the ground, his palm sliding, a whine of protest, down the wall.  

His knees gave, slowly, but he didn't mind, letting himself fold lower, until he was kneeling, crest against the bulkhead, in a posture of something like submission.  Megatron's hands left him, then, with one final, almost gentle, slide over his spaulder, and he wallowed in the last froth of the ebbing overload until he heard voices, strangers, and felt himself lifted from the ground.  

A medical chevron blocked his line of sight, and hands, gentle but neutral, examined the damage to his face. He tried to say something, hand flexing in weak protest.  

"No sensor block," Megatron said, coolly.  Megatron always had him repaired, fully, from these encounters, a prize, a sign of affection, though he would insist it was merely keeping Deadlock combat ready. Deadlock knew better. The repairs were another luxury, another treat, an escape from the violence and death of his world and the haunting of his memories. 

Deadlock sighed, silently grateful, wanting to hand onto the very last shred of this, because even the pain held echoes of the pleasure, the way shadows marked light.  And pain was its own odd pleasure, keeping him in his body, in himself, a sort of cushion lifting him from the world.  His optics flicked over to where Megatron stood, cleaned, unmarked, ready to meet anyone, and he felt the contrast, deeply, his own crumpled, damaged form.  But their optics met, and there was an exchanged glance, an understanding and a gratitude. 

The medic shot Megatron a disapproving look--all he dared to do--but stowed the sensor block module away.  He didn't understand, couldn't possibly, that it wasn't punishment, but reward. 


End file.
